Nemesis (18 page)

‘Yes?’ One syllable on the door intercom was enough to establish that Astrid Monsen had a bad cold.

‘Harry Hole. Thank you for your help so far. I wondered if it would be possible to ask a couple more questions. Have you got time?’

She sniffled twice before answering. ‘What about?’

‘I would prefer not to stand out here and ask.’

Two more sniffs.

‘Is this not a convenient time?’ Harry asked.

The lock buzzed and Harry shoved open the door.

Astrid Monsen was standing in the corridor with a shawl over her shoulders and her arms crossed as Harry came up the stairs.

‘I saw you at the funeral,’ Harry said.

‘I thought at least one of her neighbours should put in an appearance,’ she said. She sounded as if she was talking through a megaphone.

‘I wonder if you recognise this person?’

Reluctantly she took the dog-eared photograph. ‘Which one?’

‘Any of them, in fact.’ Harry’s voice resounded up and down the stairwell.

Astrid Monsen stared at the picture. At length.

‘Well?’

She shook her head.

‘Sure?’

She nodded.

‘Mm. Do you know if Anna had a partner?’

‘One?’

Harry breathed in deeply. ‘Do you mean there were many?’

She shrugged. ‘You can hear every sound in this house. The stairs creaked, let’s put it that way.’

‘Anything serious?’

‘I have no idea.’

Harry waited. She didn’t pause for long: ‘A note with a name on was stuck next to her post box this summer. I don’t know if it was serious though . . .’

‘No?’

‘I think it was her handwriting on the note. It just said ERIKSEN.’

There was a hint of a smile on her thin lips. ‘Perhaps he had forgotten to tell her his Christian name. At any rate, the note was gone after a week.’

Harry looked down over the banisters. The stairs were steep. ‘A week’s better than nothing, though, isn’t it?’

‘For some maybe,’ she said, resting her hand on the door handle. ‘I have to go now. I’ve just received an e-mail, I can hear.’

‘It’s not going anywhere, is it?’

She was overpowered by another fit of sneezing. ‘I have to answer it,’ she said with tear-filled eyes. ‘It’s the author. We’re discussing my translation.’

‘Then I’ll be quick,’ Harry said. ‘I just want you to look at this, too.’

He passed her a sheet of paper. She held it, cast an eye over it and looked up at Harry suspiciously.

‘Just have a good look,’ Harry said. ‘Take all the time you need.’

‘Quite unnecessary,’ she said, returning the sheet.

It took Harry ten minutes to walk from Police HQ to Kjølberggata 21A. In its time the run-down brick building had been a tannery, a printing press, a forge and probably several other things too. A reminder that Oslo had once had industry. Now
Krimteknisk
had taken it over. Despite new lighting and a modern interior, the building still had an industrial feel to it. Harry found Weber in one of the large, cold rooms.

‘Shit,’ Harry said. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’

Weber gave a tired smile. ‘The fingerprint on the bottle is so good
that if we had had it on our files, the computer would have found a match. Of course, we could search manually to be one hundred and ten per cent sure, but it would take weeks and we wouldn’t find anything, anyway. It’s definite.’

‘Sorry,’ Harry said. ‘I was just so sure we had him. I reckoned the chances of a guy like him never having been arrested for anything were microscopic.’

‘The fact that we don’t have him in our archives just means we have to look elsewhere. But now at least we have tangible evidence. This fingerprint and the fibres from Kirkeveien. If you can find the man, we have conclusive proof. Helgesen!’

A young man passing by pulled up smartly.

‘I was given this cap from the Akerselva in an
un
sealed bag,’ Weber grumbled. ‘This isn’t a pigsty we’re running. Have you got that?’

Helgesen nodded and sent Harry a knowing look.

‘You’ll have to take it like a man,’ Weber said, turning to Harry again. ‘At least you didn’t have to put up with what Ivarsson went through today.’

‘Ivarsson?’

‘Haven’t you heard what happened in the Culvert today?’

Harry shook his head and Weber chuckled and rubbed his hands. ‘In that case, I’ll tell you a good story to help you on your way, Hole.’

Weber’s presentation was a lot like the police reports he wrote. Brief, rough-hewn sentences sketching out the action taken without any florid descriptions of feelings, tone of voice or facial expression. Harry had no problem filling in the gaps though. He could visualise PAS Rune Ivarsson and Weber going into one of the visitors’ rooms in A-Wing and could hear the door being locked behind them. Both rooms were next to the reception desk and kitted out for families. Inmates could enjoy a few moments of peace with their nearest and dearest in a room which someone had even tried to make cosy – basic furnishings, plastic flowers and a couple of pale watercolours on the wall.

Raskol was standing when the two of them arrived. He had a thick book under his arm, and on the low table in front of them there was a chessboard with the pieces set up and ready. He didn’t say a word, just beheld them with his pained brown eyes. He was wearing a white coat-like shirt hanging almost down to his knees. Ivarsson was ill at ease and brusquely told the tall, thin gypsy to take a seat. Raskol obeyed the order with a slight smile.

Ivarsson had taken Weber with him instead of the younger officers in the investigation team because he thought that the old fox would be able to help Ivarsson ‘size Raskol up’, as he put it. Weber placed a chair against the door and took out a notebook while Ivarsson sat face to face with the infamous prisoner.

‘Please,
Politiavdelingssjef
Ivarsson,’ Raskol said, displaying an open palm to invite the policeman to start the game.

‘We have come here to gather information, not to play games,’ Ivarsson said and placed five photographs of the robbery in Bogstadveien beside each other across the table. ‘We would like to know who this is.’

Raskol picked up the photos one after the other and studied them with loud ‘hm’s.

‘May I borrow a pen?’ he asked, after looking at all of them.

Weber and Ivarsson exchanged glances.

‘Take mine,’ Weber said, passing him a fountain pen.

‘I prefer the usual kind,’ Raskol said without taking his eyes off Ivarsson.

The PAS shrugged, took out a biro from his inside pocket and gave it to him.

‘First of all, I would like to explain the principle behind dye cartridges,’ Raskol said, beginning to unscrew Ivarsson’s white pen, which happened to bear the Den norske Bank logo. ‘As you know, bank employees always add a dye cartridge to the money in case they are raided. The cartridge is attached to money dispensers in an ATM. Some cartridges are connected to a transmitter and are activated by movement, being put in a bag for example. Others are activated
when they pass a portal which may be secured above the main door of a bank. The cartridge may have a micro-transmitter connected to a receiver which triggers an explosion when it is a certain distance from the receiver, say, a hundred metres. Others explode after an inbuilt time delay post-activation. The cartridge itself can have all sorts of formats, but it has to be so small that it can be hidden between notes. Some are this small.’ Raskol held his thumb and forefinger two centimetres apart. ‘The explosion is not dangerous to the robber; the problem is the dye, the ink.’

He held up the ink cartridge from the biro.

‘My grandfather was an ink maker. He taught me that in the old days they used gum arabic to make iron gallus ink. The gum comes from the acacia tree and is called Arabia’s tears because it trickles out in yellowish drops this size.’

He made a circle with his thumb and forefinger, about the size of a walnut.

‘The point about the gum is that it thickens and reduces the surface tension of ink. And it keeps iron salts liquid. You also need a solvent. Long ago rainwater or white wine were recommended. Or vinegar. My grandfather said you should add vinegar to the ink when you were writing to an enemy and wine when you were writing to a friend.’

Ivarsson cleared his throat, but Raskol continued regardless.

‘At first, the ink is invisible. It becomes visible when put on paper. In the dye cartridge there are red particles which perform a chemical reaction when they come into contact with the paper of banknotes and this makes it impossible to remove. The money will be forever marked as robbery money.’

‘I know how a dye cartridge works,’ Ivarsson said. ‘I would rather know—’

‘Patience, dear
Politiavdelingssjef
. The fascinating thing about this technology is that it is extremely simple. So simple that I could make a dye cartridge myself, put it wherever I liked and make it explode at a certain distance from the receiver. All the equipment required would fit into a lunch box.’

Weber had stopped taking notes.

‘But the principle of the cartridge is not the technology, PAS Ivarsson. The principle is incrimination.’ Raskol’s face lit up into a huge smile. ‘The ink also attaches itself to the clothes and skin of the robber. And the ink is so strong that once it is on your hands you will never be able to wash it off. Pontius Pilate and Judas, right? Blood on his hands. Blood money. The agony of the arbiter. The punishment of the informer.’

Raskol dropped the ink cartridge on the floor behind the table and while he bent to pick it up, Ivarsson signalled to Weber that he wanted the notebook.

‘I would like you to write the name of the person in the photos,’ Ivarsson said and put the pad on the table. ‘As I said, we are not here to play games.’

‘Not to play games, no,’ Raskol said, slowly screwing the pen together. ‘I promised I would give you the name of the man who took the money, didn’t I?’

‘That was the agreement, yes.’ Ivarsson said. He leaned over as Raskol started to write.

‘We Xoraxans know what an agreement is,’ he said. ‘I’m not just writing his name, but also the prostitute he uses regularly and the man he contacted to shatter the knee of a young man who recently broke his daughter’s heart. The person in question refused the job by the way.’

‘Ah . . . excellent.’ Ivarsson turned quickly to Weber and gave an excited grin.

‘Here.’ Raskol handed the pad and pen to Ivarsson, who hurriedly read the note.

The elated smile died. ‘But . . .’ he stammered. ‘Helge Klementsen. He’s the branch manager.’ A light of illumination revealed itself to him. ‘Is he involved?’

‘Very much so,’ Raskol said. ‘He took the money, didn’t he?’

‘And put it in the robber’s holdall,’ came Weber’s deep growl from the door.

Ivarsson’s expression slowly changed from questioning to furious. ‘What is this twaddle? You promised to help me.’

Raskol studied the long, pointed nail of the little finger on his right hand. Then he nodded gravely, leaned over the table and waved Ivarsson closer. ‘You’re right,’ he whispered. ‘Here’s a tip. Learn what life is about. Sit down and observe your child. It isn’t easy to find the things you’ve lost, but it is possible.’ He patted the PAS on the back and motioned towards the chessboard. ‘Your turn,
Politiavdelingssjef
.’

Ivarsson was fuming with anger as he and Weber traipsed through the Culvert, a three-hundred-metre-long underground tunnel connecting Botsen prison with Police HQ.

‘I trusted one of the race who discovered lying!’ hissed Ivarsson. ‘I trusted a bloody gypsy!’ The echo ricocheted along the brick walls. Weber was racing along; he wanted to get out of the cold, damp tunnel. The Culvert was used to transport prisoners to and from questioning at Police HQ, and many were the rumours circulating about what had happened down here.

Ivarsson pulled his suit jacket tighter around him and stepped out. ‘Promise me one thing, Weber: you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Alright?’ He turned towards Weber with a raised eyebrow: ‘Well?’

The answer to Ivarsson’s question was a qualified ‘yes’ inasmuch as they had just reached the point in the Culvert where the walls are painted orange and Weber heard a little ‘pooff’ sound. Ivarsson let out a terrified scream and fell to his knees in a pool of water, holding his chest.

Weber spun round and looked up and down the tunnel. No one. Then he turned back to the PAS, who was staring at his red-stained hand.

‘I’m bleeding,’ he groaned. ‘I’m dying.’

Weber could see Ivarsson’s eyes growing in his head.

‘What is it?’ Ivarsson asked, his voice tremulous with fear as he looked into Weber’s open-mouthed stare.

‘You’ll have to go to the dry cleaner’s,’ Weber said.

Ivarsson cast his eyes downwards. The red dye had spread across the whole of his shirt front and parts of the lime-green jacket.

‘Red ink,’ Weber said.

Ivarsson pulled out the remains of the Den norske Bank pen. The micro-explosion had sheered it down the middle. He stayed on his knees with his eyes closed until his breathing was normal again. Then he fixed his eyes on Weber.

‘Do you know what Hitler’s greatest sin was?’ he asked, stretching out his clean hand. Weber grabbed it and pulled Ivarsson to his feet. Ivarsson squinted down the tunnel the way they had come. ‘Not doing a more thorough job on the gypsies.’

‘
Not a word to anyone about this
,’ Weber mimicked, with a chuckle. ‘Ivarsson went straight to the garage and drove home. The ink will stain his skin for at least three days.’

Harry shook his head in disbelief. ‘And what did you do to this Raskol?’

Weber shrugged. ‘Ivarsson said he would have him put in solitary. Not that that would help in the slightest, I reckon. The man is . . . different. Talking about different, how are you and Beate getting on? Have you got any more than this fingerprint?’

Harry shook his head.

‘That girl is special,’ Weber said. ‘I can recognise her father in her. She could be good.’

‘She could. Did you know her father?’

Weber nodded. ‘Good man. Loyal. Shame it all ended as it did.’

‘Strange that such an experienced policeman would slip up like that.’